


Light Me Up

by QueSeraAwesome



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alcohol, Bad Pick-Up Lines, Drabble Collection, F/M, Pick-Up Lines, Playful Carolina, so many pick up lines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 18:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3299615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueSeraAwesome/pseuds/QueSeraAwesome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles, Yorkalina flavored</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He isn’t York, not yet, and she’s not Carolina, but these are the names they’ll know each other by, these are the names that will haunt them when the other is gone beyond their reach, so these are the names we’ll use.

The club is called Errera.

The complimentary lighter is a piece of shit, but it’s entertaining York for now. The club is a dancey one, not the kind of place he’d usually frequent except for that his friends had insisted, except that he’d lost them somewhere along the way. Lost them, abandoned them, been abandoned by them, the result is the same— York’s at the bar, a shadowy corner, cheap tin between his fingers, watching the little spark flare in his hands and die, again and again rather than watch the dancers under the lights.

He’s dimly aware of the seat next to him being pushed to the side, a body leaning against the bar next to him.

The lighter’s gone.

York frowns, the slick heat from the body-warm metal still ghosting against his fingertips. He ducks, trying to see under his chair— Did he drop it?

"Looking for this?"

He looks up.

She’s got hair the color of violence, bright and red, bottle green eyes, and that can’t be real, that’s gotta be a trick of the technicolor club lighting. She’s unreal. She’s grinning at him, like a shark, like some sort of big cat— a jaguar maybe—

She’s flicking his lighter between her fingers, dexterous and sure. Skilled. She’s got scars across her knuckles.

"Yeah," he says. "Musta dropped it—"

"You don’t need it," she says, and the grin goes crooked. "Pretty sure you could light my fire just fine without it."

York blinks. Blinks again.

"Is that a pick up line? he asks, smile breaking out over his own face. "Are you flirting with me?"

She laughs, long pale arch of her throat exposed as her head falls back, colored light spilling across her neck and cheekbones. Her laugh is nowhere near as graceful, sincere and guttural, un-self-concious. He’d call it a marine’s laugh (and he’d know). And if the biceps shown off by the sleeveless cut of her shirt are any indication, if the table full of what looks like green-around-the-ears PFC’s clearly hooting and shouting encouragement is any indication, she probably is.

"Is it working?" she asks. "I got a better one."

"I think I’d like to hear it," York says.

She tosses the lighter back to him and he absolutely doesn’t bobble it. He totally catches it surely, deftly. Smooth. She sits.

Names will come later, and then codenames, and the Project. But for now, it’s just a loud bar, a handful of cheering marines, a bartender trying to hide his rolling eyes. York flicks the lighter again and the flame blooms like a candle between them, spreading light, shared, across their skin.


	2. Chapter 2

“Isn’t that weird?” Washington asks when they’re all out to dinner one night. “You’re her boyfriend and you call her ‘Boss’?”

“He only does it when we’re around you guys,” Carolina says.

“And in bed,” York chips in, taking an overly large bit of egg roll. The look Carolina sends him is priceless.

The thing is, later, thinking about it, no one can figure out if he was kidding or not.


	3. Chapter 3

"Nah. Nah, man, you can’t open with that one. Laaamme."

"Why not?" York protests. " ‘If I said I liked your armor, would you hold it against me,’ is a classic."

"Laaamme."

“Classic,” York insists. “You don’t mess with classics.”

York leans back against the rock they’re perched on. Tucker is stretched out beside him on his stomach, arms pillowing his head. Valhalla is always sunny, but that doesn’t mean the warmth doesn’t feel good on his face. Tucker shakes his head at him, like he is a disappointment.

"Dude, even I think that line’s outplayed. What about something like, 'If you were ground coffee, you'd be Espresso cause you're so fine.’”

"No. That is too cheesy even for me, man."

"You ever see her again, you gotta pick the right one," Tucker says, sitting up. "If she’s the kinda girl who’ll open with a pick up line after stealing your lighter, she’s not gonna be impressed with your C-game."

"Can I try on your boots? Because I want to be with you ever step of the way?" York tries.

"Does your left eye hurt? Because you’ve been looking right all day," Tucker says, grinning.

"Low, blow. Tucker. Low. Blow."

"Shut up, I’m awesome."

"Did I ever tell you the story of how we met?" York asks, brightly. Tucker makes the best disgusted faces when he tells the story.

"Jesus Christ, not again."

"So I was sitting in this stupid club when—-"

Tucker tackles him off the rock.

When they finally do see her again, though, he can’t say anything. He can’t say anything at all, his tongue is withering and his chest is just, just _imploding_ or something great and terrible and she’s alive, he always kinda hoped but she’s alive.

She’s staring at him. She said something. He’s certain of it.

"Dude," Tucker hisses in his ear. "You’re _fucking it up_.”

"I—-," York starts. "If I…Hey…"

But there’s really only one word he wants to stay. Only one word his ruined lungs can get out, and it says everything.

"Carolina…"

He hears a noise that is probably Tucker facepalming behind him. A rough hand jostles his shoulder, shaking him.

"Dude, what he’s trying to say is that he fucking missed you," Tucker tells her, up on tiptoe to lean over his shoulder.. "And he’s fucking sorry. For, like, everything. Cause from what he told me, he fucked up, like, everything."

" _Stop helping me_ ," York hisses.

"York."

It’s her voice. And it stops everything. Or maybe starts it.

From the tilt of her helmet, he knows she’s smiling. That small little smile that stays in the corner of her mouth, the one that says for all the thoughts and emotions racing through her head, one of them is happy.

"You’re alive," shes says. "Heaven’s got one less angel than I thought."


End file.
